


They gave me a little bed

by backfourteen



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Arsenal FC, Dutch, French, Gen, Liverpool F.C., Manchester City, Raheem is little and needs lots of layers, a lil Spanish from Kun, after yesterday's loss to Arsenal, serious convos on the bus, the new kids at MCFC, what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 12:49:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5497631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfourteen/pseuds/backfourteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Kevin! Mate. Good game today.”</p><p>Kevin nods, thanks him, reciprocates. It’s succinct and polite and Raheem is relieved. Kevin might be frustrated with himself and his match but he’s not enough of an asshole to take it out of Raheem, like he might have done if their positions were switched. Raheem thinks, <i>Kevin might be 0% asshole. But then what does that make me?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	They gave me a little bed

**Author's Note:**

> I love KDB and I've been thinking about Razza a lot lately so I had this vision of the two new Cityzens having a chat. Naturally, Liverpool comes up, and Kevin knows everything.

After the match at the Emirates, 2-1 to Arsenal, Raheem is late getting on the bus. He misplaces his keys in the away locker room and spends at least fifteen minutes searching for them before Joe comes in. 

“Harty, I’ve fucking lost my keys.”

“That’s what you’ve been doing in here? We’re all waiting on the bus.”

Raheem frowns and slips into his massive City coat, wrapping a heavy scarf around his neck and putting the hood up. Joe laughs at the sight of him, Raheem’s full bundle of clothing about the size of Raheem himself.

“You in there, Raz?”

“Yeah, fuck off, Harty. It’s freezing and you’ve only got on a jumper and some sort of bleedin' leggings thing. You’ve got the height for leggings – but still a bit dodgy, yeah?”

Joe shrugs. “Just stay at mine tonight and we’ll get the key situation sorted out tomorrow. It’s late and the whole bus is whinging.”

“More like you, Yaya, and Fabs are whinging.”

“And you would be too if you were waiting on someone.”

Raheem shrugs back. “Can’t argue. My car keys are in that bundle as well so you’ll have to drive me.”

“I’ll do anything if we leave now.”

Raheem pats the crest on his jacket tenderly as he walks behind Joe, peering up at all the Arsenal décor in the hallway leading out to the bus. 

 

All the seats are filled on the bus by that point – at least the ones Raheem feels comfortable sitting in. Joe sits by himself at night after a loss, Raheem knows by now, and it seems everyone else does the same. There are no empty pairs left, only single seats next to someone else. _Fucking mint, last thing I need right now is someone snapping at me,_ Raheem thinks as the bus lurches into motion and his seat is chosen for him. He falls onto his new seatmate, who jumps five feet into the air in fright. 

“Nice one, Raz. Fucking sound. Soz, the bus started up and –”

“It’s alright. I’m okay.”

The voice is slow but warm and without spite. It’s dark on the bus but Raheem would recognize that nasally voice anywhere, the sharp French _t_ ’s. 

“Kevin. Mate. Good match today.”

Kevin nods, thanks him, reciprocates. It’s succinct and polite and Raheem is relieved. Kevin might be frustrated with himself and his match but he’s not enough of an asshole to take it out of Raheem, like he might have done if their positions were switched. Raheem thinks, _Kevin might be 0% asshole. But then what does that make me?_

“I can do better. Very much better with finishing.”

“So can I. So can this whole squad.”

“Except for Yaya.”

Raheem laughs aloud and covers his mouth with his jacket sleeve when Kolarov gives him an eye from across the way. Kevin smiles, pleased. 

“Right. Yaya scores worldies but only when he wants. No more often than that.”

Kevin pulls out his phone, the bright screen blinding them both.

“I am going to tell Vincent about this. He will think it is very funny.”

And Raheem squints a little at Kevin because _since when is Vincent Kompany someone people on this squad are chummy with?_ Raheem doesn’t think he and Vincent have shared more than a few casual words outside of professional settings – Raheem always thought him so official, sort of untouchable. But Raheem knows that the long time first team players are all close and that maybe he just hasn’t been around long enough to fit in. But neither has Kev. 

“Will you do a favor for me? My typing in English is bad – will you send to Vincent that joke from me on this phone?”

 _They both play for Belgium, right_ , Raheem thinks, taking Kevin’s new iPhone and beginning to type when he stops.

“Soz, I don’t know anything, but what language do Belgians speak? Belgian?”

Kevin laughs quietly and shifts in his seat to face Raheem a bit more. 

“French and Dutch. And English sometimes. But I am bad with English keyboard, so I am bad at texting on my new England phone.”

Raheem fiddles with a few things on the iPhone and to Kevin’s amazement, Raheem presents him with French and Dutch alternative keyboards. 

“And also, if you want to change the language of your entire phone, you go to Settings, and then General, and then Language and Region.” 

Kevin thanks Raheem profusely before diving into his new keyboard, testing out the French keyboard first, sending a text to Kompany faster than Raheem could say a sentence. _And no one can understand me when I speak_ , Raheem thinks, completely in wonder of how it must feel to see one’s own language after struggling with bullshit English. 

“J'peux écrire en français maintenant! Raheem m’a montré comment taper en français et néerlandais. That is what I send to him. ‘I can type in French now, Raheem showed me how to type in French and Dutch.’ Now all of my friends can understand me because my English text is just letters and sometimes numbers would go in them.”

With Raheem’s help, Kevin ends up switching the language of his phone to Dutch, and when Raheem shows Kevin that his phone can call him by name ( _It speaks Flemish!_ Kevin says like he’s just received the best gift of his life), Kevin holds the phone up to Raheem’s ear.

“The _geleerde_ , um, the people talking on the TV? In England, they are saying my name wrong. Where did they find _de Broy-nuh_? It is more like ‘brown.’ The color in English.”

Raheem listens to the phone say Kevin’s name and it’s unlike anything he’s ever heard. It really is more like _Brown_ but with a decently heavy 'uh' at the end and not such a wide _o_ vowel, and Raheem shakes his head when he realizes Kevin de Brown is turning him into a linguist. 

“Where are you from?”

Raheem waits for a moment because when was the last time someone asked him that with any real curiosity? 

“Born in Jamaica but grew up here mostly. In London. Just mum and me.”

“Do you see her often?”

“Not as much as I’d like.”

Kevin holds his gaze steady. 

“Or my daughter. I see them but if it were up to me – if I always had my priorities straight, like, and if I didn't play football. I’d see them more.”

Kevin nods and Raheem is infinitely grateful things fall silent for a moment. 

“I know you are playing in Liverpool before. Is City very different?” 

Raheem exhales. If Kevin was uncomfortable with what was about to come up, _well, it’s his fault I’m thinking about this anyway._

“Can I say something?”

Kevin nods intently and leans in, and Kun pops his head over the seat, rubbing his eyes, leaning his chin on his hands, and smiling innocuously, sleepily. 

“Si ustedes dos son tranquila, se puede decir lo que quiere.”

Raheem and Kevin look up at him and Kun puts his finger up to his lips, shushing them before sinking back down into his seat. Raheem shakes with a silent laugh before he speaks again, this time in a whisper.

“Can I say something?”

“Yes.”

“I fucked up there. At Liverpool. With the transfer, with my representation, with statements, interviews. I made that bed and those fans are making sure I’m still lying in it. Liverpool got me and raised me when I was dead young and undeveloped and they gave me - erm, let’s stick with the bed thing. They gave me a little bed. You with me?”

Kevin nods to encourage him on, attentive and respectful. 

“They gave me a little bed. But that’s all I needed when I was sixteen. As I grew up, Liverpool replaced my bed with bigger beds but for some reason the biggest bed was too much. Even after I was Golden Boy. Even after I proved to them I deserved it. They were fine to give me the middle bed, and fine to make me stay with the middle bed, but not the big bed. And City offered me the big one. Now I have the bed I want.”

They pass through a block of streetlights and Kevin’s face lights up orange. Kun snores behind them. 

“So you like it better here?”

Raheem laughs in spite of himself. “Sorry about all that. Yes. I prefer it here.”

This time, Kevin’s silence makes Raheem almost twitch with guilt. 

“What about you, Kev? We’re both new here. Do you like Manchester better than, erm, where you were before?”

“Wolfsburg. Every club has been better after Chelsea. They didn't want me. My team from Belgium was special and Chelsea came for me but only Bremen and Wolfsburg gave me, like you said, a bed. I want to be here for a long time. In Manchester.”

“And now you were on the Ballon d’Or shortlist. That’s the kind of bed I want.”

Kevin nudges Raheem with his shoulder gently.

“I don't know if any bed can be the size you want.”

They both sleep for a bit until all the lights flash on and grumbles fill the bus. Hart sees everyone off and rubs Kevin’s unruly head of orange hair as he walks down the aisle, wrapping his arm around his neck. 

“Did you even sleep? All I heard was you talking to Razza here.”

“Stayed up chatting shit about you, Harty.”

“Keep that up and you’re not staying at my place.”

After quick goodbyes to everyone else, Kevin pulls Raheem aside and asks him to wait as he digs through the pockets of his gym bag. He notices flashes of green inside Kevin’s City bag – a Wolfsburg towel, a Wolfsburg water bottle, maybe even a Bremen sock. Raheem doesn’t think he has anything Liverpool left in his bags at all. 

“Are these your keys? I found them in the locker room.”

Kevin holds up Raheem’s keys and Raheem jumps in the air, snatching them happily. 

“Yes! Fuck! Thank you. You just saved me a night of play-by-play, Harty style. And that means the world, Kev. Means the world. You’ve never seen post-match obsession until you hang round Harty. He knows what went wrong every bleeding second of the match. Minute thirty-six, this. Minute thirty seven, that.”

Kevin goes to walk away with a wave when Raheem runs after him, something tugging at him.

“Benteke. You know him. Through Belgium.” Kevin nods. “What’s he like?”

Kevin laughs, his breath in misty puffs.

“As a friend or a player?”

“Will he do good for Liverpool, I mean. Will he help them?”

Kevin nods confidently.

“I met Mr. Gerrard a few months ago in California. Before I came here. He was so kind and he told me about you. He said he thought we are similar.”

Raheem doesn’t move, doesn’t know what’s coming next.

“I see that now.”

This time, Raheem lets Kevin walk to his car. As Kevin gets in, he looks back and waves with a smile. “I hope you fit into your bed tonight!” 

And as Raheem stands in the middle of the car park, puffy and padded, a shiver goes straight down his spine.

**Author's Note:**

> I love KDB even more after writing him for the first time. I watched a bunch of interviews and his English is _solid_.
> 
> Cameos by Kun are why I do this! “Si ustedes dos son tranquila, se puede decir lo que quiere.” If you two are quiet, you can say what you want.
> 
> There is photo evidence on KDB's Instagram that he met Stevie and it's the cutest.


End file.
